


A Hologram and a Newglass Brace

by Skull_Bearer



Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Alternate Universe - Space, IN SPACE!, Lars Gottlieb Being a Dick, M/M, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skull_Bearer/pseuds/Skull_Bearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ball has been declared to find a suitable husband for the last prince of Terra, amidst the rumble of revolution and the wishes of a cruel father and a faithful friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hologram and a Newglass Brace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asteropos](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=asteropos).



> My Secret Santa for asteropos.

Hermann knows he’s in trouble when he’s called to his father. His holoscroll carefully rolled up and slipped inside his shirt; he holds still as the servants come and carefully get him ready to enter the royal presence- even for a small meeting, he needs to be properly dressed, hair brushed and pinned, face carefully painted.

Perhaps his father would be happier being served by an army of holograms, who he could program to look like however he wanted- the little voice in Hermann’s head even _sounds_ like Newt, and Hermann bites his lip to hide a smile; the childish fear that his father could read his mind having never quite left.

He straightens, the weight of the newglass brace on his leg dragging uncomfortably. He settles his balance and starts the long, stiff walk to the throne room.

His father looks at him the moment he walks in, flanked by the guards. His mouth thins, and Hermann’s heart slowly sinks to his knees. “Come here,” Hermann hesitates, “Now!”

The brace on his leg jerks obediently to his father’s wishes, he stumbles and the guard catch his arms, walking him forward to face his father.

His face is dark, mouth even thinner. He looks Hermann up and down. “Give it to me.”

Cold sweat breaks down his back, the holoscroll is heavy inside his robes. “What?”

“You know perfectly well,” he turns to the guards, “It wasn’t in his chambers, he must have it on him. Strip him.”

The servants’ hands were gentle when they dressed him; the guards’ gauntleted hands have no such reason to be kind. The newglass armour scratches his skin, snags his hair. Hermann tries to push them off- and stumbles and his brace bends his leg forward and he falls forward.

The man gets a hand inside his shirt- scouring a line through his shirt and cutting his skin- and his fingers close around the holoscroll.

“I have it!” He holds it up and Lars gives a thin, satisfied smile. The man steps forward and kneels to offer him the scroll, “My lord.”

Hermann pulls himself free, “Father- I only-“

“Shut him up.” A hand slams over his mouth and Hermann has to close him mouth to keep from cutting his lips on the armour's edges. “I am sick and tired of your lies,” He unrolls the scroll.

He takes his time, carefully perusing Hermann’s research, interactions- the hundred little rebellions in continuing his studies, educating himself-

And the correspondence, oh God, the correspondence.

Finally, when Hermann is sick to his heart and has sweated through his shirt, Lars looks up; “You are determined to be an embarrassment.” He closes the scroll, and snaps the rollers; Hermann can’t help it- his _work_ \- his only grasp at the outside world-

Lars throws the sparking, crackling remains at the floor as though disposing of a dead mouse. “Your servants will be scrapped, my creations will attend you. You are to be married and I will have you act like it.”

The guard’s hand finally pulls away and Hermann swallows, wiping the scratches on his mouth, “Sir- my servants are good, they can be found-“

“I let you continue this- charade for too long. You have gone against my orders, I should have had them got rid of from the beginning.”

Hermann opens his mouth to say- something- and Lars waves him off, “Take him back to his room.”

There is nothing he can do, he is marched back to his room and his servants- his gentle, smiling, slightly eccentric servants, with their childish faces and wild wiring- are already gone. His bookshelves have been stripped.

And when his new servants come in to undress him, pale and smooth and faceless; their hands cold and impersonal, the newglass leg brace gets another, extra twist- not enough to tighten it enough to hurt- but the pressure is a pointed reminder. The control. The weakness in his leg as his muscle slowly atrophies under the pressure.

He wishes- well, he wishes he had been more careful; but he wishes he had been able to sent Newt another message. It’s been months since he saw his friend last- the evening his father’s men had come to take him from the quiet, still peace of Cumulus University- and his last message had been an angry one.

He wishes he had said goodbye, he wishes he could have said- something. Something beyond his frustration and helplessness venting on the only person he could. He wishes he could have thanked Newton for remaining with him- even like this; for being his friend- sort of- and for-

Well, there was no point of thinking of than now, was there?

 

* * *

 

Newt is working when Tendo comes in. “You’re actually doing this, then?”

Newt spits out a mouthful of magnetic screws and watches them scuttle to their respective holes, “Mako needs to keep secrets, you know, _secret_.”

“She’s worried about you,” Tendo sits on the edge of the desk, Newt focuses on ignoring him, sliding down in his anti-grav harness to check on his new jets. “We’re all worried.”

“You can just- not actually care.” He starts the long business of rewiring the jets to maximise speed. It’s a clapped out rig- but damn it it’s going to be a _fast_ clapped out rig.

“Yeah, right.” Tendo gets up and walks over to stand under him, “Where are you going to go, even if you do pull this off?”

Newt sighs, and meets Tendo’s eyes, “Why d’you want to know?” It comes out more accusing than me meant it to.

Tendo blink, “You think I’m going to side with the royalists on this one?”

Newt sighs, “No, but seriously-“ he pulls out the substance of the pipes and starts reorganising the atoms, strengthening the tubes.

“Because we worry about you,” Another voice, Newt looks down and blinks at the upside-down image of Stacker Pentecost.

“Oh, come on,” Newt sighs, “I take Hermann away from their shithouse, last eligible heir gone; you make your push for a republic- what’re you worried about-“

“Your well being, and that of Doctor Gottlieb,” Stacker crosses his arms, Newt opens his mouth to say something snarky, but the Marshall’s _Doctor Gottlieb_ cuts a lot of the anger, because Hermann fucking _deserves_ that title and it’s – _not fair_ -

“Without being able to maintain correspondence with Doctor Gottlieb, we cannot warn him about his impending- elopement-“

Newt feels his face start to heat, because- well, they never talked about that but he could see how much Hermann wanted to and- oh fuck, they had been so _happy_ , once Newt had carefully screened his communications so Lars’ shitty messages could go fuck themselves-

Which was probably about 90% of the reason they had no warning, and couldn’t _tell_ anyone until it was too late.

“Where are you planning to go, anyway?” Tendo goes to stand beside Pentecost.

Newt sighs, looking at them upside down is making him sea-sick, and focuses his eyes back on his work, “Cumulus University, Venus have never given a fuck about royalty- or anyone else. And Hermann does technically have tenure.”

“They didn’t call on it to free him.”

“Yeah, because he was already gone;” Newt opens the jets a bit wide- hopefully enough to go into full burn early- while not burning off his own exhausts. “They can’t exactly try and get him back if he’s halfway to Luna-“

“But if he’s already on Cumulus-” Pentecost nods. “But we will still need to get him there.”

“Mako’s got me an invitation, and I am still kinda noble- from Mom-“

“Just run in, grab Hermann, and run out?” Tendo steps up to stand under him, “Look at this.” He holds something up;

Newt sighs and reaches down a hand, the electrons seize on the holoscroll and carry it back to his hands.

He opens it. And swears.

Stacker allows him a surprisingly long streak of cursing before he steps forwards, “ _Doctor Geiszler_.”

And there’s something in his voice that closes the outburst in his throat.

There’s something about Pentecost; he could take the throne himself, easily, when they oust Gottlieb. But he won’t, and they all know it. That’s why he leads them.

“But if I can’t even get in-“ Newt waves the offending scroll.

“You can and you will,” Pentecost gives a tight smile, “If perhaps not in the way we were hoping.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s strange, for as gaily and beautifully the palace is decorated for the ball, the heavier Hermann’s stomach feels. His life has shrunk to his small, childish rooms; without the escape of his holopad and the realms beyond this tiny place- without Newt to amuse him and irritate him and make his heart sore for the distance between them-

But even his rooms are better than being trotted out, like a pet dog or horse, to be shown off to visiting dignitaries and nobles all eager for the sight of the King’s only recognised child- the last of the royal flesh.

The decorations, heavy and rich and dazzling in ruby and diamond and gold filigree everywhere, sculptures of ever-steaming solid oxygen, frozen mercury. The carpets of softly steaming carbon dioxide, swirling and whispering in the wake of scuttling, eager feet.

His gowns; carefully screened and evaluated. Hermann wonders dully why anyone bothers. The guest will be coming to parade themselves before Lars, and examine Hermann. He might as well be presented naked on a platter.

He doesn’t say anything- out of fear that his father _would_ do this. He stands still when they measure him, pin fabric to his body; shift the colours through a myriad of shades to find _just_ the right one. And if Hermann ever gets tired, lets his arms droop or tries to shift his weight, his brace tightens and pinches painfully until he raises them again, stays still.

The gowns turns from boned to unboned, stiff to whispering, trailing to ankle-length. They settle on a high, sleeveless corset, laced up tight at the back to draw his narrow waist narrower still. A long, simple skirt; they argue between puffy and not until settling on not. The hems whispers against his ankles, swings heavy against his hips- catches on the brace.

Hermann touches the metal struts through the fabric, squeezes, the muscle has shrunk in the few months since Karla ran- since Lars took him and decided to make sure he could not do the same.

The dressmaker's metal arms carefully measure his shoulders, and sets a long shawl over his shoulders; it flickers through a hundred shades of blue before turning a deep, dark aquamarine, the colour of the sky just before night.

Hermann toys with it, feeling the tiny diamonds in the fabric, and his heart screams for the stars he hasn’t seen for months.

 

* * *

 

 

The circlets sets over Newt’s head, another around his neck for a necklace, bracelets, a belt, anklets. “For Terra’s sake don’t stay more than a few hours,” Tendo helps him tighten the clasps as Mako works on the control. “The hologram won’t hold beyond midnight, we haven’t been able to fix the reset;”

Mako’s mouth tightens, “If we could have time-“

“Fuck no,” Newt pulls the shirt uniform over his head. It’s the suit of a major general. “I’m not leaving Hermann in there with those- vultures- are you sure no one will recognise me?” To Pentecost.

He nods, “General Hansen will be with me, waiting for news of your elopement. Many of the guards will be on our side, but be careful not speak to any of them, just in case. Here-“ He reaches over and adjusts the collar. It’s hopelessly too big, but with luck the hologram will cover any errors.

The boots are at least in his size, knee-high and so highly polished they’re like mirrors. His trousers are thick and dark, newglass belt and buttons on his soft sable jacket, attuned to him so they do themselves up with only a thought. The cloak has been pinned so it doesn’t drag on the ground, and Newt can’t help but touch it reverently. Its deepswimmer fur, from when one could still hunt the bright living beasts, instead of waiting to find them floating dead and dull and belly up against the Europan ice.

Newt hesitates, he looks ridiculous, but it takes little imagination to think of how he’d look to Hermann- tall, forbidding, dangerous. “How am I supposed to tell him it’s me?”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Pentecost gives a tight smile, “You know him, Doctor, and the hologram will not disguise your voice. Tell him what you must to make him understand, but for the love of the stars, be discrete.”

Newt sighs, and straightens in his absurd outfit, longing for the old plan when he’d just have grabbed Hermann and they’d have both run for it.

 

* * *

 

 

The ball is so widely attended that very room in the echoing palace is full; the noise, the heat is overwhelming. Hermann sips water and longs for his childhood days, when he could hide behind columns and door and disappear.

He longs for those days, his life- all those happy days still ahead of him- when now, it feels almost over.

Instead he sits stiff and still in his appointed chair, as the suitors comes up in an endless line to pay their respects to the king- and, nominally at least, to Hermann.

Dignitaries, nobles, ambassadors. Royalty and the highest-born men and women of the planetary realms. Even the upper ranks of the military are represented; generals of the lands and admirals of the stars. They all look at Lars in grovelling obsequiousness, at Hermann with hungry greed.

The last of the Gottlieb children. With Dietrich gone in suspicious accident and Bastian in their mother’s flight and Karla to the stars- he is the last heir of this miserable, twisted family. And they will no more let him go than his father would.

He looks at their eager, cold faces and it sinks in- as he has always known, that this will simply be exchanging one cage to another- a smaller, more miserable cage, with a jailor who will be able – as his father is not- to do whatever they want to him.

And its then, as his mind screams wordless refusal at everything before it that he meets the man’s eyes.

It is one of the military entourage; a tall, heavy-faced man in a deepswimmer cloak and high, polished boots. Unlike the others, he spares Lars no more than a glance, eyes fixed on Hermann. And unlike the others, his eyes are kind.

Hermann shifts, looks away, not wanted to meet that pitying gaze- he knows how pathetic his position is without being reminded of it.

His father’s hand clamps like a trap on his shoulder, the brace digs in hard enough to make him gasp. It relaxes, but not as much as before- a further reminder through punishment. Hermann doubts he will be able to walk properly without it now, soon he will not be able to stand.

But with it, he will dance. The first of his many, many partners is lining up to begin. Hermann gets up and the muscle of his thigh screams as the muscle digs in, thinning and weakening. Hermann bites the inside of his mouth and forces himself to smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Newt has to struggle to stand Hansen-still and not fidget or chew his fingers or chatter nervously as he waits for his turn on the ballroom floor. The elder and married nobles join them, maintaining a respectful distance.

Hermann dances without expression but a vague smile, but his eyes are darting around like a trapped animal looking some way- _any_ way- out. Newt twists his hands behind his back, digs his nails into his palms, forces himself still.

Hermann dances tirelessly, or at least, without the appearance of weariness. He is pale and still when it’s finally- _finally finally_ Newt’s turn, only a faint flush over his collarbones suggesting he might be affected from the dance.

Newt tries to twist his mouth into Hansen’s smile; Hermann meets his eyes, then looks away. Newt takes his hand, thin and slender, with only a simple ribbon tied around his wrist.

It seems obscene to think about how _beautiful_ he is, here, in this place. But he is. Tall and slender and beautiful in his dress and shawl and the delicate filigree of the silver and starstone necklace around his neck.

But mostly, just Hermann. His odd, lopsided face, those high cheekbones, sharp jaw. Those impossibly gorgeous, delicate hands.

And then, Newt meets his eyes again, and the sheer misery in them breaks any romance he might be feeling for the situation. Newt smiles again, encouragingly, and leads him out onto the dance floor.

He tries to say something, in the heat and strumming strings of the dance, but Hermann doesn’t answer. Maybe be didn’t hear- or maybe, Newt isn’t the first one to have tried to speak to him, and has trained himself not to hear.

Newt glances over, and takes them behind a particularly large pair of dancers- broad bust and rear and even broader skirts hiding them momentarily from the rest of the room. He leans in, Hermann flinches, Newt grits his teeth, thick a quiet apology, and pulls Hermann in closer.

Hermann stiffens, hands scrabbling to push him away, but Newt gets him close enough- “Herms.”

He stops dead- or most of him does, he left leg carries on the steps without him, and Hermann nearly falls. Newt steadies him. “We can’t stay long. My carriage is outside. Don’t worry, it’s been souped up so you wouldn’t recognise it-“

Hermann doesn’t seem to hear, his fingers are tight on Newt’s arms. His lips tremble. “Newton.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Newt eases a little closer, draws him in and feels Hermann tremble. “Listen, I’m going to lead us over to the windows and we’re going to run. It’s a bit of a jump- but we did worse in Cumulus, right?” He tries to smile.

Hermann doesn’t smile, instead he carefully drops a hand from Newt’s arm and pulls up his skirt- just enough for Newt to see-

He bites the inside of his mouth until it bleeds to keep from swearing- or screaming. “How long-“ he chokes.

Hermann’s face twitches, barely withheld pain, “Since Cumulus.”

Weeks, months. That’s a lot of damage, if the bastard set it tight enough. “Can you walk?” Newt grasps the control for the hologram on his wrist.

Hermann looks away, shrugs minutely. “You have taken if off?”

Hermann meets his eyes, and for a moment, the old fire is back in his eyes, “Of course not, do you think he let me-“

“Okay,” Newt takes a deep breath, it’s all going Io-shaped, but like they’re going to change plans now. “I’m going to short it when he get to the windows, if you can run, run. If you can’t- we’ll manage.” He makes himself grin confidently, a familiar smile on an alien face.

“The guards-“ Hermann starts,

They are approaching the windows- high and bright in the wall. Outside, Newt can see the strange white curve of his carriage- his old rig almost unrecognisable under Mako’s improvements. “Don’t you worry about them.” Newt squeezes his hand.

Either Pentecost came through, and there are enough of his people here to keep the loyal guards busy, or there aren’t, and things are going to be over very, _very_ quickly.

“Newton,” Hermann’s voice is desperate, “Please, if they- if we can’t-“

“We’re going to.” Newt gets ready to short his wrist control, drops his hand a little lower on Hermann’s back, preparing to target the brace.

“If we can’t,” Hermann’s looks at him, pleadingly, “Please, I couldn’t- don’t let me-“

“Shut up,” Newt grits his teeth, because he _can’t_ do this right now, he _can’t_ -

They finally swing over to the windows and Newt drops his hand to Hermann’s upper thigh, the shorts the control.

The hologram rings crack and spit sparks, shocking him painfully. The brace _screams_ as it tears open- the wicked, evil thing falling as they jump out of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

They hit the wide base of the stairwell; Hermann stumbles, but clings to Newt’s arm and keeps his balance. His leg drags behind him, but he can put _some_ weight on it, at least. The newglass of the brace shatters as it hits the ground, sleek, sharp fragments catching the light.

The guard beside his carriage moves almost before they’ve hit the ground, clubbing the soldier on the steps before he even has time to draw his crackling blade.

Behind them, the crackling spit of electromagnetic bursts forces them down by instinct- but only two come their way. The roars of Pentecost’s men- “Republic! Republic- echo from the halls, along with the screams of the panicking guests.

The door is already open; Newt shoves Hermann onto the pillion, and climbs roughly across him to get to the controls.

A deafening _crack_ and the carriage rocks, Newt glances back and sees Lars Gottlieb, face twisted and flushed and furious, with a narrow wedge of guards- cutting their way through republicans and public alike.

“Go!” Hermann shouts, drawing up the secondary control panel, fingers covering the shields to set them.

Newt grits his teeth and activates the new jets, praying nothing will explode.

Maybe something does- he has no idea- the _roar_ and kick of the engine knocks the breath from his lungs and throws them both back into the seats, and takes out a large chuck of marble and lunar ice.

The cracks of magnablades follow them, but they’re too fast and before long Newt can see Lars and his guards having to turn to face a new threat- the masses of rebelling republican s at his back.

The sound dies as they leave the artificial atmosphere. Silence, but for the dully vibration of the engines, and their own wild, panting breathing.

Newt leaves the pre-programmed code of their coachman to handle the journey to Venus, looks over to check on Hermann.

He's still frozen in place, hands on the secondary controls, he’s trembling. “Herms,” No response, “Herms!”

He has to reach over and ease Hermann’s hands down before the tension finally breaks, and Hermann buries his head in his hands. “Hey, hey,” Newt shifts over and puts his arms around him, “Hey, come on. You’re supposed to be yelling at me for fucking up the mission- or telling me how I could have done it better-“ Hermann chokes, and somewhere under those tears, there a smile, “That’s it, yeah, I’m a moron, you know me- stupid plans all round-“

“It was a good plan,” Hermann swallows, wipes his eyes.

Newt blinks, “Did you just compliment me?”

Hermann snorts, and despite the absurd dress and makeup and jewellery, he looks more like his old self since that terrible day Lars’ men came to Cumulus University. “Don’t get used to it.”

Newt grins, and Hermann smiles back; a real, bright smile that steals the breath from Newt’s lungs and makes his heart ache. “And I am not about to compliment any of your other plans- particularly not the Mercury mess- I will never forgive you for that-“

Newt laughs, and Hermann starts to laugh too, and the stars fill the windscreen before them- the open sky, and beyond that-

Freedom.

 


End file.
